


You can be the Tennessee Williams to my Joe DiMaggio

by worrylesswritemore



Category: Falsettos - Lapine/Finn
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teachers, Enemies to Lovers, Love/Hate, M/M, Marvin is a drama teacher, Whizzer is the new baseball coach, a criminal amount of literature and baseball references, and i am here to provide it!, that everyone has wanted to become a real fic, title sucks bc i cannot come up with a title for the life of me, yeet it's basically the teacher au created by me and whizzerbrowne on tumblr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-02-17 18:34:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13082853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/worrylesswritemore/pseuds/worrylesswritemore
Summary: “So you’re stealing this away from me.”  Marvin says quietly,like you stole the money, like you stole my kid.Whizzer slaps him on the shoulder, hitting Marvin like a bullet to the chest, “It’s more like a collaboration.”Marvin sucks in a quick, deep breath, pointing out in a low murmur, “I don’t play well with others.”Whizzer looks him up and down, sizing him up.“I can tell.” Whizzer says, and this time when he touches Marvin’s shoulder, he lets his hand linger, “But we’re not going to be doing muchplaying.”When Marvin doesn’t respond, Whizzer squeezes his padded shoulder. He’s smiling, in a way that devastates Marvin.Tilting his head, Whizzer asks, a bit coy,“Arewe, Mr. Marvin?”:: - ::Marvin is a drama teacher who has an understandable flair for the dramatics. Whizzer is the new baseball coach who won't stop stealing everything that Marvin worked so hard to fortify - his prestige, his kid, hisheart.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> HEY! It's the Teacher AU that everyone has been craving!! Credit for the inspiration of this fic goes to @whizzerbrowne on tumblr, who is so unbelievably talented with their headcanons and au creations. This au would not even exist without them.

When Marvin recites the passage, he does so through clear, precise memory, as if Shakespeare had penned the soliloquy into the shape of his mouth rather than the dusty parchment. Packed like sardines in the overcrowded, _underfunded_ classroom, fifteen sets of eyes peer up at his podium, some with vague interest, most with apathetic boredom.

Picking up his ruler, Marvin departs from the podium, walking calmly through the sea of desks and briefly stopping at one in order to _SLAM_ the head of the ruler down, only missing the dozing student’s head by a quarter of an inch.

“Mr. Jacobi,” Marvin says, ignoring the tittering of giggles as the student hurriedly wipes the spit from the corner of his mouth, “What is Shakespeare trying to accomplish by writing this part?”

The wide-eyed junior sputters a little, venturing, “A dick joke?”

“Not this time.” Marvin says, deciding to spare the kid and moving back to the front of the classroom, “But a surprisingly educated guess. Bravo.”

 _“To be, or not to be,”_ Marvin repeats, emphasizing each word, _“That is the question._ Now, we know that Hamlet is suicidal. Why is it important that Shakespeare make this point so damn prominent? What does it say about the character, about the play?”

A few hands raise in the air. Marvin ignores each and every one of them and instead picks on the timid, curly haired girl in the corner.

She jumps in her desk, as if frightened by her own name.

After a second, she says, measured and quiet, “It is about death.”

“Wrong,” Marvin tells her, quick and direct, “Try again.”

She looks at him, as if the answer is written on his forehead, “It’s about life?”

“Wrong.” Marvin raises a hand, to both ease and stop her, “It’s alright. Most literary ‘experts’ get this wrong too. _Hamlet_ is not just talking about life or just talking about death; he is talking about both. He talks about what annoys him about life and what frightens him about death.

“The soliloquy is about _anger_ , and _hopelessness_ , and _uncertainty_ , and _discontent_. He hates life, but he does not want to leave it. He wants death, but he is scared of what lies in the afterlife. The soliloquy is about the danger and scariness of _choice_. And Shakespeare wrote this soliloquy not just to make Hamlet appear like a whiny brat, or to add even more drama into his play. He didn’t write it so that only other suicidal people can get something out of it.”

Marvin turns around and starts jotting down their homework on the board, continuing, “Shakespeare wrote the line ‘To be or not to be?’ because it’s so _applicable_ . Because _everyone_ is faced with choices—a choice to stay in the misery yet comfort or to venture out into the unknown. The question is not to _die_ or to _live_? The question is really: To be with your devil or to be alone?”

Marvin pauses for dramatic effect, only to have it ruined by the splatter of poorly suppressed giggles behind his back. Hurriedly, he whirls around, face already set to stone, but the students aren’t even looking at him. Instead, all eyes are trained on the doorway, and Marvin doesn’t even have to look to know who it is.

Marvin stares at a fixed point ahead of him, not giving the asshole the satisfaction of seeing the fire in his eyes, “Don’t you have sticks to be waving in the air?”

“They’re called _baseball bats_.” Whizzer says, loudly chewing a piece of bubble gum in betwixt his smirking lips, “I’m not a caveman.”

Marvin snorts, not convinced of that fact.

One brave, _ignorant_ freshman (who Marvin hasn’t bothered to learn the name of because she’s a _freshman_ ) has the nerve to beam at the man leaning in the doorway, saying, “Hey, Coach Brown.”

Whizzer gives a half-hearted wave, but Marvin can tell by the hole burning in the side of his face that he still has his gaze locked on the drama teacher.

“So, Mr. Marvin, who’s _your_ devil?” Whizzer says, blowing a bubble and popping it with his straight, white, _stupid_ teeth.

Marvin sighs, walking over to the door and looking straight at the cocky son-of-a-bitch. Whizzer Brown’s smile deepens, enough so that small dimples appear on his angular cheeks.

Marvin answers him, quick and direct, “You.” Before Whizzer can try to catch the door with his foot, Marvin slams it shut in his face, enjoying the slightly stricken expression on the man that he can see through the small window.

Marvin smoothly turns back around to his chortling students, continuing tightly, “And I’d rather be alone.”

:: - ::

Ignoring the loud lunchroom of screaming kids, Marvin morosely picks at his clumpy mashed potatoes, “He’s ruined my life.”

Charlotte looks at him like she did when a smart-mouthed sophomore asked her to curve his seventy-five percent to a ninety, “He’s only been here for _two weeks.”_

“I know,” Marvin groans, his temples throbbing, “And he’s already given me a stomach ulcer.”

“You got the stomach ulcer from just being _you_ .” Trina tells him tightly, opening her tupperware of freshly cooked meatballs that makes Marvin’s stomach _hurt_ with desire, “I mean, how many have you had since I’ve known you? _Twelve_?”

“To be fair,” Marvin replies, because he just can’t help himself, “I got most of them when I was still married to you.”

Trina just _looks_ at him, like she’s wondering if she can get away with murder with fifty other people in the room.

Marvin ignores her, heaving a sigh so dramatic that it would make even himself proud, “I just miss the _old_ coach.”

“The old coach was _embezzling_ from the school.”

Marvin narrows his eyes at Charlotte, “Your point?”

“Well, _I_ think that he’s nice,” Trina says, probably _just_ to get on Marvin’s nerves, “And the kids love him.”

“The kids love him because he’s just as mature as they are.” Marvin points out, disgust prominent in his voice, “He acts like a _friend_ rather than a mentor. It’s so unprofessional.”

Charlotte rolls her eyes, “You’re just mad that the principal gave the sports department most of our budget.”

“And you’re _not_?” Marvin demands, “I mean, your kids need better lab equipment, and Trina needs more—you know, whatever—”

“ _Ovens_ , Marv,” Trina butts in exasperatedly, “We need _working ovens._ And don’t pretend that this isn’t about you not getting that sound board—”

“Which I didn’t get _because_ we dipped into the drama department portion of the budget to hire a failed Major League star who busted his knee and had to settle for a low-paying, soul-crushing job at a public city school.”

Charlotte and Trina share a look, having some silent conversation with impressive eyebrow movement and eye rolling.

“You sound bitter.” Charlotte tells Marvin, after a beat.

Trina hums, agreeing, “I was going to say insane, but bitter works too.”

“Of course I’m bitter,” Marvin proclaims, with an air of dignity, “ _All_ tortured artists are bitter.”

Charlotte and Trina silently elect to ignore him the rest of the lunch hour. Marvin thinks that this is horribly unfair and thinks about saying so, but then that would just make him seem _bitter_ , wouldn’t it?

:: - ::

Marvin isn’t being arrogant to say that he has a bit of a reputation around here.

He’s “one of _those_ teachers,” as one would say (and they often do; students apparently don’t notice that even whispers carry through the long halls). Marvin is strict, hard-working, serious, and passionate.

And _apparently_ that makes him a bit of a dick. Or so the rumors like to go.

But Marvin is okay with having that reputation. He’s okay with not being the “favorite,” as if he really cares about what teenagers think of him.

He does, however, care about what _one_ teenager thinks of him.

And that teenager _apparently_ thinks that Marvin is a bit of a dick.

It’s more than a little disheartening, he’ll have you know.

“ _Why_ would you sign me up for _theater_?” Jason demands, slinging his backpack into one of the empty desks of Marvin’s classroom. Marvin looks up from his stacks of ungraded papers, vaguely realizing that school has ended for the day.

“You need to get out more.” Marvin says, stretching in his seat and becoming disturbed at the various cracks of his bones, “And you wanted more extracurriculars, don’t you? _Theater_ is a perfect one.”

It would also mean that Jason would get the opportunity to spend more time with his father, which Marvin thought was pretty great if you asked him.

But Jason doesn’t seem to think so, looking at Marvin like his father is trying to _personally_ ensure his immediate implosion.

“I already have my extracurricular decided,” Jason says tightly, “Which you would have known if you actually _asked_ me first before deciding to sign me up for your dumb play.”

Marvin elects to ignore the fact that he just called _Hamlet_ , Shakespeare’s _greatest_ work of all time, a ‘dumb play.’ He is constantly reminded of just how much he goes through for Jason.

“And what would that extracurricular be, exactly?” Marvin asks, eyes narrowed.

Jason straightens his posture, but he trips over his words a little as he declares, “I’m going to try out for baseball.”

On the outside, Marvin only blinks.

But on the inside, Marvin is already starting to plan how to eviscerate Whizzer Brown in the school parking lot.

:: - ::

At the next staff meeting, Whizzer Brown wears _shorts_.

 _Shorts_. To a _meeting_.

“And he looks good in them.” Charlotte murmurs to Marvin as they watch Whizzer laugh and smile and suck up to the principal from across the room.

Marvin glances over at her, horrified at her comment, “You’re a _lesbian_.”

“I’m a lesbian with _eyes_.” Charlotte scoffs, “Seriously, Marvin, this is annoying. Just—ignore him, if you hate him so much.”

“You know hate doesn’t work like that.” Marvin points out, “Talking about how much I hate him is therapeutic. It makes me be able to tolerate being around him.”

“But it also makes me unable to tolerate being around _you_.” Charlotte argues.

“You’re my _best friend,_ ” Marvin says, because it sounds less sad than to say _‘you’re my only friend,’_ “You are obligated to hate everyone I hate.”

Charlotte stares at him for a moment, as if overwhelmed by his stupidity, “I’m going to walk away now.”

Marvin watches her leave, having half a mind to go and bother Trina just so he wouldn’t have to stand here alone. He looks around only to find his ex-wife once again flirting with the English teacher, a short, curly-haired man who actually thinks that _Streetcar Named Desire_ is _classic_ in any form of the word.

And he decides that he’d rather be alone than watch the uncomfortable _disaster_ that is Trina _flirting_.

“You know, I’ve never seen you out of those dusty gray suits.”

Marvin seriously needs to tie a bell around that man.

Marvin recovers his composure, pointing out with not just a hint of derision, “You know, I’ve never seen you out of shorts.”

Whizzer cocks an eyebrow, imploring in a whisper, “Would you like to?”

Marvin admits that he kinda walked himself right into that.

“What do you want, Mr. Brown?” Marvin asks, keeping it direct and to the point (both of which that Whizzer clearly has no concept of)

“A conversation that doesn’t include you acting like an insufferable bastard.” Whizzer tells him, smiling, like he’s _joking_ , like they’re _friends_ or something.

Marvin scoffs, pointing out lowly, “That’s impossible. Ask anyone.”

“Fair point.” Whizzer shrugs, enunciating the way that his tight shirt stretches over his broad shoulders. It’s so...distracting.

No, no. That's not the word. He meant _u_ _nprofessional._

“So, a couple of my boys are thinking about auditioning for Hamlet,” Whizzer tells him, and _of course_ that’s the reason that he’s talking to him.

“Don’t worry,” Marvin says, barely suppressing his eye roll, “It won’t interfere with your precious baseball rehearsal.”

A corner of Whizzer’s mouth twitches, “ _Practice_.”

Marvin looks at him with a furrowed brow, “That’s what I said.”

Whizzer sighs, in a way that reminds Marvin acutely of himself.

“Anyways, that’s not the reason I came over here.” Whizzer says, just as Marvin was about to walk away.

“Let me guess,” Marvin says wryly, “You came over here to debate the philosophical merit of _Hamlet._ ”

Whizzer ignores him, “I was just talking to Bill over there—”

“Kissing ass, I bet.” Marvin says, and just as he was about to follow that up with an incredulous, _‘And you call our principal_ Bill _?’_ Whizzer speaks again.

“Actually, I was offering to manage the annual fundraiser for the school.” He says, “You know, keep the school from imploding because of all the new pay cuts and added regulation fees.”

“And I’m sorry that he told you no thanks,” Marvin replies, because any reality where that isn’t the case is not a reality that he wants to live in, “ _I_  always host the fundraising campaign. It’s one of the many underfunded, necessary things that I do around here.”

“Exactly,” Whizzer says, smirking at Marvin with that _stupid_ look on his face, “Which is why Bill thought it would be a great idea for you have some help with it this year.”

Marvin has very rarely been so angry that he forgets to breathe. This is one of those rare times.

“So you’re stealing this away from me.”  Marvin says quietly, _like_ _you stole the money, like you stole my kid._

Whizzer slaps him on the shoulder, hitting Marvin like a bullet to the chest, “It’s more like a collaboration.”

Marvin sucks in a quick, deep breath, pointing out in a low murmur, “I don’t play well with others.”

Whizzer looks him up and down, sizing him up.

“I can tell.” Whizzer says, and this time when he touches Marvin’s shoulder, he lets his hand linger, “But we’re not going to be doing much _playing_.”

When Marvin doesn’t respond, Whizzer squeezes his padded shoulder. He’s smiling, in a way that devastates Marvin.

Tilting his head, Whizzer asks, a bit coy, “ _Are_ we, Mr. Marvin?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa late update like whhaattt??? Better late than never though!!  
> This was originally going to be longer, but I'm just unhappy with the latter half of the chapter, so I decided to split it in half so that I could post what I was proud of and then work on what I wasn't. So, this may be a little short, but the next update will be much sooner since it's mostly all written already.

By now, Marvin can just  _ feel  _ Whizzer’s foreboding presence, like a ghost of a breath on the back of his neck. He pauses mid-sentence on the whiteboard, his purple Expo marker halting as he completely loses his train of thought. He doesn’t  _ have  _ to look, but he does anyway, just to see Whizzer leaning in the doorway and making goofy faces at the laugh-stifling students.

Marvin narrows his eyes at him, but Whizzer takes the obvious annoyance at the interruption in stride, meeting Marvin’s gaze and just  _ smiling  _ at him.

For a long moment, they stay locked in this duel of stares, up until a point that Marvin realizes that they are the only two  _ adults  _ and  _ role models  _ in this room.

“Did you need something?” Marvin finally asks, and it’s silly how much that the simple question makes him feel like he just admitted defeat.

“Not really,” Whizzer says, shrugging, “Carter Philips just dared me to try to distract you until class was almost finished, and I said that I could do it without even saying a word.”

As if God was suddenly a fan of comedic timing, the bell rings, the cocky junior in question only slowing down in the rush of students to high five Whizzer on his way out.

“Really?” Marvin demands, as soon as the last student had left the room, “You behave like that with the students, and they’ll never respect you.”

“They do respect me,” Whizzer asserts, coming completely into the room and closing the door behind him, “They just don’t  _ fear  _ me. There _is_ a difference between the two—you know that, right?”

“Fear is just a deeper level of respect,” Marvin informs him, adding, “My mother taught me that.”

Whizzer falls silent for a moment.

“Sorry,” He says quietly, after a beat, “I was just hit with the terrifying realization that there are  _ two of you  _ out there in the world.”

Marvin's mouth twitches.

“Now," Whizzer says, crossing the room and hopping up to sit on top of Marvin's desk, "As much as I know you want this to be a social call, I'm actually here to talk about business."

Marvin raises an eyebrow, unconvinced.

"Really," Whizzer asserts, though he spreads his legs shamlessly in a way that makes Marvin doubt his intentions, "We need to talk about this fundraiser gig thing—you know, pitch around ideas. I've already been thinking about it, and I've come up with this sports—“

Immediately, Marvin says, “No.”

“Let me finish. It’s—“

_ “No.” _

Whizzer’s friendly expression flickers, dissolving into something harder.

“Is there a reason that you don’t like the idea _you haven’t even heard?_ ” Whizzer asks sharply, “Or are you just acting like a dick because you are, _ in fact, _ a dick?”

“I just don’t want it to revolve around sports,” Marvin tells him, “ _ Everything _ revolves around sports here—the pep rallies and the homecoming dance and the spirit week, and  _ please stop me _ when you’ve heard enough.”

“Your point?” Whizzer asks with a shrug,  _ still  _ not getting it, “ _ Everyone _ likes sports.” 

“No,” Marvin denies with a laugh, “Believe it or not, some people actually find all of them to be a bit  _ boring _ .”

Whizzer looks like Marvin had just strangled a dog in front of him.

“Well,” Whizzer says, a bit haughtily, “Maybe some people also find that  _ theater  _ is a bit  _ boring _ .”

Marvin scoffs, “Then those people just haven’t seen the right play.”

Whizzer smirks, throwing his words back in his face, “Then maybe they also just haven’t played the right sport.”

“What, like  _ baseball _ ?” Marvin rolls his eyes, exclaiming, “Oh please.”

“You need to step outside of your comfort zone, Mr. Marvin,” Whizzer informs him, hopping off his desk with the echo of the impressive grace of a ballet dancer.

And without a continuation, Whizzer heads for the door, and Marvin feels a little miffed at the sudden stop of momentum.

“Oh yeah?” Marvin calls after him just as Whizzer opens the door because dammit, he needs to get that last word.

But Whizzer won’t give it to him—he never does.

“Baseball diamond, today, five o’clock.” Whizzer says, and Marvin doesn’t even realize that he’s being invited until he’s already missed his chance to say no.

:: - ::

When Marvin enters the baseball diamond, the field is surprisingly empty, save for Whizzer holding a cardboard box of ratty-looking baseball gear.

Marvin makes a very apparent face of disgust, “Wow, you’re really pulling all the stops out for little ole me.”

“You have no idea,” Whizzer says, walking over and slapping the pitcher’s mound thing, “Now take a seat. Class is in session.”

Marvin looks at mound, vaguely annoyed but mostly interested, “You want me to sit in the dirt while you show me threadbare props?”

“Props?” Whizzer exclaims, wild-eyed as he shakes the box in his hands, “These aren't some generic cheap shit.  These are  _ instruments  _ of the Greats. Like,  _ here _ ,” He rummages through the box and takes out an old, faded baseball cap, “Sandy Koufax’s Dodgers cap. Or  _ this _ ,”  He takes out a mitt, “The Big Unit’s pitching mitt. Or  _ this _ ,” He rummages to the bottom and gently takes out a baseball, encased in a glass box, “One of the original balls from DiMaggio’s big streak.”

The passion streaks through Whizzer’s voice, paints his cheeks red, sets a wildfire in his eyes burning brighter than the insufferable sun beating down on them.

And the grin on his face is  _ pure  _ and  _ unfiltered _ , so unbelievably different than Whizzer’s usual secretive or calculated expressions. It makes Marvin grow softer, become less on the defensive.

With a theatrical scene more for just posterity than anything genuine, Marvin sits down on the pitcher’s mound with his legs crossed and his head in his hands. He makes a _Go On_ gesture, one that Whizzer just blinks at for a moment in surprise, as if he wasn't expecting Marvin to be _a team player._

But then, it’s like the curtain rises, and a spotlight is centered, and suddenly Whizzer is talking a mile a minute.

He tells stories of conquest and hubris, of heartbreak and humility. He rattles off statistics and dates and locations, but Marvin pays attention to the fervor in his voice, the drama in his retelling, and the wild gestures of his hands. When he picks up the equipment to use as a prop, he does so with gentleness and reverence, as if he is still trying to preserve the imprint of the original owner’s fingerprints in the leather or cotton.

When Whizzer is finished, the sun is already dangerously low in the horizon, but Marvin doesn’t even notice until Whizzer points it out.

“Oh,” Marvin says, feeling almost like he’s just awoken from a dream state, “Shit, I need to get home. I have costumes to resow.”

“So,” Whizzer says as Marvin gets up and tries his best to dust off his trousers, “All sports are still  _ boring _ , right?”

Unwilling to admit defeat, Marvin just shrugs, but Whizzer doesn’t let him off easy.

“Oh really? That’s funny,” Whizzer says, giving him that look again, the one that devastates him, “You didn't seem bored.”

But that had more to do with Marvin paying as much attention to the shape of Whizzer's mouth as the actual words spoken.

But Marvin _can't say that,_ so he just sighs, allowing, “It all depends on the framing, I guess. When told like that, with the drama so pronounced and all, baseball...doesn’t seem  _ that bad.” _

Whizzer smirks, victory evident in his crooked grin, “So it’s agreed. Our fundraiser will be—“

“Not so fast,” Marvin halts him, raising a hand, “You haven’t given me a chance yet.”

Whizzer just blinks, like he honestly didn't expect a challenge.

“Carvell Theater, tomorrow, eight o’clock.” Marvin says, turning his back and walking away to leave the man with his little sports toys in the dust, “Wear something pretty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE LEAVE A REVIEW!!! The feedback has been astronomical, and it's so beneficial to the update schedule and the quality of the story to keep giving that level of feedback. So please, if you like what you read, leave a review and tell me what you liked about it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The response to this fic has been overwhelming. Thank you so much!! Here's an early update!!

This time, Marvin is prepared.

As the blustering sophomore fumbles over his lines, Marvin absently hears the doorknob of the closed door rattle. He makes a courtesy glance in order to make sure who it is, a smile catching on his lips when he sees the familiar crop of brown hair in the narrow window. Before they can make eye contact, Marvin hurriedly looks away and pretends not to hear the bemused knock at the door.

Only when one student starts to stand up does Marvin break his facade of ignorance, “Anyone who goes to answer that door will be assigned set cleaning duty after theater practice for a  _ month _ .”

The student immediately plops back down, casting an apologetic glance out at the outsider.

Class continues for a few more moments, but finally, since teenagers just can’t help themselves, one student says, “Um, Sir, he says that it’s an emergency.”

Marvin wants to roll his eyes, but he figures that that’s a bit too unprofessional.

Instead, he follows the student’s gaze toward the window where Whizzer has written  **EMERGENCY** on the palm of his hand and pressed it to the glass.

On one hand, Marvin knows it’s a trap. On the other hand, Marvin does not want to get fired if it turns out to  _ not  _ be a trap.

It takes more time than he’s proud to admit to weigh the pros and cons.

Finally, Marvin crosses the room and unlocks the door, asking briskly as to get the first word in, “What’s the emergency?”

Whizzer nods solemnly and gets out his phone, the movement so quick and efficient that it causes an ounce of seriousness to trickle down Marvin’s spine.

But then Whizzer shows him the screen, swiping between two pictures of just him in similar flashy outfits.

“It’s a fashion emergency,” Whizzer tells him, deadly serious with a twinkle in his eye, “Which is a more appropriate combo for a theater night?”

Marvin sighs, contemplates why God had given him such a short patience if he was going to subject him to such trials and tribulations.

“So long as you’re not wearing shorts,” Marvin says before glancing at the two pictures again, adding, “The first one is better.” He makes a quick, darting glance back up to Whizzer’s face, huffing and accusing, “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

Whizzer just smiles, a dangerous tug of lips.

“What’s this for?” One student asks, and it’s then that Marvin remembers that they have an audience.

Marvin opens his mouth to say snidely  _ Winning a bet, _ but Whizzer beats him to it with the nonchalant reply, “I have a date tonight,” 

Marvin’s jaw remains slack, his brain momentarily short-circuiting.

Whizzer continues, “Going to some swanky theater show. Mr. Marvin, have you heard of it? Something about animal neglect?”

“It’s  _ Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, _ ” Marvin corrects, but his voice lacks the malice and snide. 

“Right, right,” Whizzer says, “Sounds boring either way. I’ll tell you how it is though.”

And with that, Whizzer walks away, without care to how he has fractured Marvin’s psyche and ruined the rest of his day.

:: - ::

“So, you asked Whizzer Brown on a date,” Cordelia surmises slowly, her brow raising with disbelief, “And now you’re panicking because he referred to it as a date?”

“It’s  _ not  _ a date,” Marvin says, aggressively cutting into his fish(?) taco, “ _ He _ called it a date.  _ I  _ never called it a date.” 

Cordelia continues to stare at him, and there’s something  _ infuriating  _ in her tone, “Okay.”

“It’s not a date.” He corrects her, desperately, “It’s a  _ challenge _ .”

Cordelia nods, stealing a burnt fry from his tray, “Right.”

Marvin narrows his eyes at her, imploring, “It’s a  _ ploy  _ for  _ dominance _ ”

“Uh huh.”

_ “It’s not a date!”  _ Marvin exclaims just as Charlotte finally sits down at the lunch table to join them.

The biology teacher raises an incredulous eyebrow, demanding with very apparent skepticism, “Marvin has a date?”

Marvin groans and slams his head pointedly on the table.

“No,” Cordelia answers for him, adding snidely, “But he  _ wishes  _ it was.”

Before Marvin can raise his head and refute this blatant lie, Cordelia’s pager goes off, calling her back to the kitchen.

The lunch lady pouts, “I never get my full twenty minutes.”

She rises from the table, and Marvin doesn’t imagine how Charlotte’s face falls a little behind her carefully constructed mask of nonchalance.

“Cordelia’s nice.” Marvin says innocently to Charlotte just as Cordelia disappears into the kitchen to put out whatever fire (metaphorical or literal) that her subordinates have caused.

Charlotte doesn’t respond, instead investing her attention into the soupy mashed potatoes.

Marvin doesn’t know how to be nonchalant, continuing pointedly, “And she’s cute.”

Charlotte snorts, “Don’t tell me you’re pretending to be straight again.”

Marvin narrows his eyes, retorting in a mimicked tone, “Don’t tell me you’re pretending to  _ not  _ be obsessed with the head lunch lady again.”

“Marvin,” Charlotte sighs, “Just because we work in a high school does not mean we should act like we’re  _ in  _ high school.”

“You’re right. Sorry, that was unprofessional.” Marvin says, adding in a low whisper in her ear, “ _ Charlotte and Cordelia sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes love, then comes gay marriage, then comes homophobic accusations of ruining the sanctity of marriage by the same people who have been divorced seven times.” _

Charlotte elbows him, accusing, “You’re an actual child.”

“No, I’m a hopeless romantic,” Marvin corrects her, heaving a long, suffering sigh, “And it is my fatal flaw.”

Charlotte rolls her eyes, quickly changing the subject, “So, Mr. Hopeless Romantic, tell me about this date of yours.”

_ “Oh my god, it’s not a date.” _

:: - ::

Oh Christ, what if it is a date?   
Or, more like, what if Whizzer actually  _ thinks  _ it’s a date?

But no, that would be  _ preposterous _ . Whizzer is many things ( _ annoying, insufferable, terrible, did he already say annoying? _ ) but  _ romantic _ ?  _ Oblivious  _ to Marvin’s very apparent dislike?  _ Actually interested _ in Marvin?

Marvin lets himself live in that reality for a moment before shutting down and promising to  _ never go back again. _

Because this isn’t what this is — not by a long shot. This is not some Rom-Com,  _ When Harry Met Sally _ moment.

Marvin has more respect for himself than to allow his personal life to be reduced to such ridiculous fodder.

_ Really _ , he does.

:: - ::

When Whizzer finally walks up to him outside the theater, Marvin says bluntly, “You’re late.” 

The man’s smile drops as he retorts bemusedly, gesturing to his watch, “I’m on time.”

“Here’s a note for you in the professional field,” Marvin says, “If you’re not ten minutes early,  _ you’re late.” _

Whizzer rolls his eyes and transfers his attention to his reflection from a nearby car window, fixing his hair and tugging firmly on his suit jacket.

With his attention subverted elsewhere, Marvin allows himself a courtesy glance, at Whizzer’s dark suit and tie, his trim waist, his fitted dress shirt, his tailored trousers, his broad shoulders masked in dark material

Marvin speaks before he has a chance to shut himself up, “You look...”  _ Devastating _ , “Nice.”

Whizzer tears his eyes from his reflection, looking over at Marvin, “And you look…” His eyes trace the familiar outlines of Marvin’s regular suit, “Exactly how I thought you would.”

Marvin frowns, “That’s not a compliment, is it?”

Pointedly ignoring the question, Whizzer looks down at his watch, “We should go inside. Don’t wanna be late.” He makes a grandiose gesture for Marvin to lead, but just as Marvin walks ahead of him, Whizzer follows close behind. 

When Whizzer lies his hand on the small of Marvin’s back, it doesn’t mean anything.  _ Really _ , it doesn’t.

Because Marvin’s life is _not_ a _When Harry Met Sally,_ _dammit_.

:: - ::

They’re sitting in a dark, crowded room, their thighs and shoulders dangerously close together. And Marvin tries to pay attention to the play — really, he does — but Whizzer keeps leaning in close to him, whispering questions and comments and inane banter as if he physically can’t shut up for a moment. 

Marvin thinks about telling him to be quiet, thinks about sparing both of them the dirty looks that keep getting thrown their way. 

But Whizzer seems to actually be paying attention to the play and he accidentally keeps bumping their heads together with every whispered word...

And Marvin knows how to pick and choose his battles, and he doesn’t mind losing this one.

:: - ::

“The title was very misleading.” Whizzer says after the play as they walk out into the night air.

“They often are.” Marvin tells him, adding, “That’s why I prefer Shakespeare. His play titles are always simplistic and transparent.”

“You know, I bet myself fifty bucks that you would somehow reference Shakespeare tonight,” Whizzer laughs, “I should have bet more.”

Marvin rolls his eyes and tucks his hands into his pockets, bracing himself against the wall of the theater and wondering what their next move is. Do they just say goodbye and walk away? Does he walk him home? Does he ask Whizzer back to his place?

Nope.  _ Nope _ . Scratch that last one. That thought was fleeting and evil to his mind.

“So,” Marvin says, “Any in-depth analyses brewing in that pretty little head of yours?”

Whizzer shrugs, simply saying, “It was okay.”

“ _ Okay _ ?” Marvin repeats, floored, “I even picked out a modern play for you! And you thought it was just  _ okay _ ?”

“A  _ modern  _ play, huh? It was made in the  _ fifties _ .”

Marvin blinks, not understanding the point, “Yeah?”

Whizzer snorts, shaking his head in that sort of bemused way.

There’s a beat of silence, and Marvin can feel the night coming to an end. Whizzer seems to notice the shift of atmosphere as well as he says, short and nonchalant, “I had fun.”

Marvin arches an eyebrow, needling, “So you did like it, huh?”

“I didn’t say that,” Whizzer looks at him,  _ only  _ at him, “I said I had fun.”

The moisture in Marvin’s mouth seems to have melted from the heat of Whizzer’s gaze.

Looking to the ground, Marvin thinks about broaching the subject carefully, hoping to add  _ Maybe we can find a Chinese place that’s still open, if you’re hungry,  _ but Whizzer halts his plans before he has a chance to open his mouth.

“At least I can tell the kids that the date was a success.” Whizzer says, saying  _ that  _ word again.  _ Date. _

Something in Marvin’s face causes Whizzer to immediately add, before Marvin can think of any retort,  “I was messing with you, you know.”

Marvin looks back up at Whizzer, confused, “What?”

“Calling it a date. In front of the kids.” Whizzer says, like it’s supposed to be  _ funny _ , even though the man’s smile seems to be tinged with something harsh, “I was messing with you. Did it work?”

Marvin doesn’t respond right away. He just stares at him.

Because it did. Too well.

Whizzer continues, laughing slightly, “I bet you were scrambling in your head all night, thinking of ways to _ let me down easy. _ ”

Marvin looks down at his shoes, his jaw working. He never knew he could be this angry and devastated about something that he didn’t even want to happen anyway.

“Yup,” Marvin agrees, after a beat, “Totally.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Okay, Miss Boyle, I’m just going to stop you right there,” Marvin cuts off her dribbled dialogue, trying to keep his voice as less  _ “devastatingly cutting and harsh”  _ as possible (as per his instructions from the principal after the  _ latest  _ student complaint), “What are you doing?”

The senior just narrows her eyes at him, staring at him as if he’s joking (he’s not), “Reading my lines.”

Marvin’s eyebrows reach up to kiss his hairline, “ _ That’s _ what you called that?”

The senior shrugs, looking as dead as her character is going to be in act two ( _ Thank God _ ).

“Let’s just put it this way,” Marvin reaches under his desk and slams down a less-than-threatening medium tupperware bowl,  “My ex-wife made me this chicken egg salad for lunch today.” 

“Weird.” A mumble that Marvin distinctly recognizes is heard from the throng of students. 

But Marvin doesn’t take his eyes off of Miss Boyle, though he does point out sharply, “Mr Jacobi, shut your mouth. Your mother still picks out your clothes for you.”

Mr. Jacobi speaks again, but his mumble is not so easily discernible on account of the splattering of laughter, “She seriously needs to stop coming to those stupid parent-teacher meetings.”

“As I was saying, the chicken in this salad,” Marvin continues, and hey, maybe he is starting to hear that edge in his voice that makes a student cry in the bathroom at least twice a month, “Is more lively than you in this scene. You’re ‘reading your lines’ like you’re in the middle of a dental appointment. Just, for  _ once _ , please try to — you know,  _ act _ , just like you continue to act like you didn’t just take this class so you wouldn’t have to take Latin with Mr. Weisanbachfeld — who is a  _ garbage  _ teacher with  _ juvenile  _ opinions about the arts and I want all of you to repeat that to him verbatim the next time you see him.”

“That speech was a travesty,” Whizzer Brown says from his desk, unable to keep his mouth shut (which had been a mandatory requirement in exchange for Marvin’s allowance to let him sit in on the class, “You began it with a weird analogy with chicken and you ended it with a public recognition of scorn for a coworker.”

Marvin glances over at him, ignoring how his tongue suddenly feels ten times heavier, “ _ Travesty _ , huh? Is that your word of the day?”

“Nope,” Whizzer replies with an obnoxious smack of his lips, “Vex actually is, and I am positively  _ vexed  _ that you thought otherwise.”

Marvin smiles before he remembers that Whizzer stole the drama department’s budget and he’s slowly but surely turning his kid against him and he’s an awful stupid  _ jerk  _ that Marvin  _ totally  _ didn’t want to date and make out with in inappropriate workplaces anyway, and has he mentioned how much he  _ hates  _ Whizzer Brown?

But Marvin still smiles at him, because he’s only human, and Whizzer smiles back, because he’s, like, Satan’s nephew or something.

:: - ::

“I think Whizzer Brown is a reptilian.” Marvin whispers conspiratorially to Cordelia, to which the lunch lady arches an eyebrow and leans in with interest.

“You know, now that you say that,” She replies, surprisingly solemn, “His skin is, like,  _ unnaturally  _ flawless.”

Marvin hits the lunch table, grateful that someone here is taking him seriously, “And that hair!”

“And those cheekbones!” She agrees.

Marvin nods his head, “And those eyes!”

“And that  _ ass _ !”

It’s at that moment that Trina decides to join them, furrowing her brow and demanding, “Excuse me?”

Cordelia looks over at her and answers bluntly, “Marvin thinks Whizzer is a reptilian because he gave him a boner.” 

And that was not the conversation that they were having  _ at all, _ but Trina does not stay long enough for him to refute those remarks.

She stands up immediately, saying, “I’m just going to eat in my classroom today.”

She leaves before Marvin’s brain reboots itself and he blusters out, “That is  _ not  _ true.”

“Marvin, it’s okay,” Cordelia comforts him, “You have a crush on him, so what? It was bound to happen.”

“ _ No _ , it wasn’t.”

“Hello?” Cordelia exclaims, exasperated by his stupidity, “Have you  _ ever  _ seen a romantic comedy? This shit follows a formula, Marvin. Next, you’re going to have wild sex and then pretend that you’re still friends even though you both are secretly falling in love with each other.”

“Those are movies, Cordelia,” Marvin points out tightly, though she did briefly have his interest at the “wild sex” part, “This is real life. And in real life, this whole thing fizzles out and he remains my lifelong nemesis.”

“Lifelong nemesis?” Cordelia repeats, weirdly standing up all of a sudden even though her shift doesn’t start again for at least another fifteen minutes, “Marvin, those don’t exist in real life either. But you know what does?”

It’s a trap, but Marvin can’t help but take the bait, “What?”

“Love,” Cordelia answers snidely before the knowing smirk is abruptly wiped off her face and she suddenly looks over Marvin’s shoulder, “Oh hey, Coach.”

Marvin stiffens just as Whizzer walks over to his line of sight and shares a high five with Cordelia, “Hey, ‘Delia.” He looks over at Marvin, but the eye contact is brief and weirdly avertive, “Mr. Marvin.”

And that’s how it’s been since that night:

Around the kids, Whizzer is still the obnoxious thorn in his side, barging in on his classes and wasting time with his inane banter.

But any time they’re alone (which has been frequently more and more rare), Whizzer is distant, dodgy — like Marvin is a particularly costly water bill that he’s trying to avoid.

It’s a little disheartening, considering the fact that Marvin actually enjoyed himself that night and he’d thought that Whizzer had as well.

But  _ whatever _ . It’s not like he cares anyway.

“I gotta go,” Cordelia says, “I promised Charlotte that I’d take her soup after school to help her get over the flu, and I still have yet to make it — or come up with any recipe or preparations for it.”

And with that, she’s gone, leaving Marvin and Whizzer alone at an empty table.

Whizzer plops down in the seat across from him, causing Marvin to remark, “You never eat here.”

“I didn’t think I was welcomed,” Whizzer points out, “I’m under the impression that teachers use this time to bitch about workplace hells to each other, so I thought that I’d always give you this reprieve to complain about me.”

“I don’t  _ always  _ complain about you,” Marvin defends himself, shrugging, “Sometimes I bitch about the weather.”

Whizzer laughs, the one that makes the skin around his eyes crease and that makes Marvin’s chest get tighter.

“Seriously though, you shouldn’t avoid the cafeteria because of me,” Marvin says, “There’s plenty of other reasons to avoid it. For example, the food is shit.”

“Yeah,” Whizzer agrees, confiding, “When Cordelia said she was going to cook soup for an already immune-system-weakened Charlotte, I did a quick prayer under my breath.”

Suddenly, Marvin and Cordelia’s “complaints” come back to him, manifested in physical form in front of him:  _ That hair. Those cheekbones. Those eyes. That ass. _

“I actually came to you for a reason.” Whizzer says, distracting Marvin from thinking about Whizzer’s aforementioned  _ ass _ -ets.

Marvin smiles, his bitterness a weird surprise to both of them, “You always do.” He snaps himself out of it at the sight of Whizzer’s tug of a frown, clearing his throat and changing the air between them to a more friendlier mood, “What’s up?”

“Well,” Whizzer begins, “I kinda told the principal that we’d have a proposal for the fundraiser plan by the end of the day.”

“And you did that  _ why _ ?”

“So you’d feel pressured and caught off guard enough to agree to an intramural racquetball league,” Whizzer answers honestly, whipping out a folder that Marvin hadn’t even realized he’d had, “Look, it’s simple and fun. All students each pay twenty bucks to play and we organize a cool little tournament. It’s cheap, profitable, and the kids would love it.”

“The  _ athletes  _ would love it. It’s very demographic-specific,” Marvin points out, “The dinner theater is universal. It’s a potluck so we don’t have to spend money on the actual dinner, and the kids get to participate for only ten bucks so we get a profit.”

“I looked at the records,” Whizzer replies, “Your sales have been plummeting ever since you started doing the dinner theater thing seven years ago. I mean, it gets  _ old _ . The students are bored.”

“They’re  _ teenagers _ ,” Marvin argues, cracking into the tupperware of cookies that he was  _ supposed  _ to give to Jason (but the kid said he didn’t want them and Marvin doesn’t want them to go to  _ waste _ , okay? Trina probably worked hard on these things, and Marvin is always so considerate of others’ feelings — when it benefits himself, that is), “They’re  _ always  _ bored.”

“You got a point there,” Whizzer says with a sigh, reaching over and stealing one of the cookies, “Hell, I’m not even sure an intramural league would work anyway. All the kids have so much to do after school; it’d probably fall apart.”

Marvin has a sudden urge to comfort him, but a nagging suspicion stops him, “Are you trying to do reverse psychology on me?”

“Maybe.” Whizzer admits, nibbling on the dessert in a way that brings attention to his perfect teeth, “But I was also telling the truth. It’s hard to get the kids to sign up for something with commitment; they already have so much going on.”

“They can’t even spare a night for dinner theater,” Marvin agrees, noticing that it has been getting harder and harder to fill those seats, “Maybe you were right. Maybe we should come up with a new idea.”

“Okay. We have three hours to make a decision that has taken us weeks to stubbornly push our own agendas and not brainstorm new ventures at all,” Whizzer says, “Should be easy.”

Marvin groans, shovelling the rest of the cookie into his mouth. The sweetness of the dish almost makes him feel a little bit better, albeit for a brief amount of time.

And that’s when it hits them both, nearly simultaneously.

Crumbs dribble from their mouths, eyes wide and cheeks bulging, as they each yell like raving lunatics with folie a deux,  _ “Bake sale!” _

:: - ::

The principal is less ecstatic about the proposal, but he doesn’t say no outright, “It’s a little stereotypical.”

“It’s just the bare bones of a plan,” Whizzer points out, assuring, “We can sex it up a bit.”

“This is a  _ school _ , which is an institution for  _ minors _ ,” Marvin says, gawking at his fundraiser partner, “We are  _ not  _ going to sex it up — not unless we plan to lose all federal funding.”

Whizzer straightens his shoulders, declaring, “It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

“Ignore him,” Marvin pleads with the principal, “Look, it’s a little run-of-the-mill, but that’s the point. Bake sale fundraisers are so universal because they  _ work _ . And we don’t need  _ pizzazz  _ this year, right? We need money.”

The principal looks between both men, his brain mulling over the prospect with scarily long duration.

Finally, he leans back in his chair and says, “Alright.”

It’s a simple word, but it means everything in that moment.

:: - ::

After they’re dismissed from the meeting, they walk together down the hallway, basking in the afterglow of an admittedly small victory but a victory nonetheless. Marvin feels giddy and anew, the possibilities of what this funding could do for his department as endless as King Lear’s follies.

(Maybe it’s the surprise that he and Whizzer could actually  _ agree  _ on something that gives Marvin that spring in his stop or maybe it’s the fact that Whizzer is walking a few feet in front of him and giving him perfect view of his ass, but really, who’s to say?)

“Maybe if we get enough extra cash, you can get that soundboard.” Whizzer points out after they’re dismissed from the meeting, making Marvin almost do a double take.

“You knew I wanted that?” He asks, brow furrowed.

“Yeah,” Whizzer says, rolling his eyes, “You yelled it into my face the first time we met. Remember?”

“Yes, I do,” Marvin admits, a little sheepish about the whole thing now, “I was sorta hoping you didn’t.”

“How could I forget?” Whizzer exclaims, bumping his shoulder with his own, “Hot guy, red-faced and sweaty, berating me in front of strangers. It was the discovery of a kink I didn’t know I had.”

“Don’t do that.” Marvin says sharply because it isn’t fair — to shamelessly flirt with him one second but then act completely disinterested the next.

Whizzer’s relaxed posture slightly stiffens, but he tries to play it off with the overly ignorant, “What?”

“You know what,” Marvin says, just as they reach the parking lot, “Put up or shut up.”

And disappointingly, Whizzer shuts up, his jaw working in a way that implies he wants to say something but has deemed it unworthy of a breath.

“Dad, can we go now?” Jason says from his place on the bench, eyes glued to his gameboy as he stands up and slips his backpack on. He only looks up briefly to shoot a wide, bright smile at the baseball coach, “Hey, Whizzer.”

The dark cloud over Whizzer’s face brightens at the kid’s acknowledgement, greeting just as cheerfully, “Hey, Jason. Focusing on tightening up that swing?”

“Oh yeah,” Jason answers, “I can’t wait to show you tomorrow at practice.”

Whizzer nods and smiles teasingly at him,  “Just promise me you won’t break another lamppost light and I’ll look forward to it.”

“That was  _ one time!” _

_ “One time  _ is way too many, Dude!”

The eerie familiarity between the two makes Marvin roll his eyes and get a bad taste in his mouth. It’s a reminder that Whizzer is not some potential one night stand. This guy works with Marvin; hell, more importantly, he works with Marvin’s  _ son _ . And it doesn’t matter that Whizzer isn’t seriously interested in him because Marvin isn’t — no, he  _ can’t  _ be seriously interested in him either. 

Because he’s pretty sure that this whole dynamic here would be a conflict of interest, on  _ so  _ many levels.

“We should go,” Marvin says, willing to say anything to break up this weird trio,  “Those TV dinners aren’t going to microwave themselves.”

He realizes too late that that statement doesn’t make him sound like a good candidate for  _ Single, Gay, Divorced Father of the Year _ award (and, with that  _ criteria _ , he’d assumed he’d be a shoe-in).

Whizzer doesn’t immediately retreat to his own vehicle. Instead, he watches Marvin and Jason leave, with the air of someone who has something to say but doesn’t know how to say it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is short, but I haven't updated in a month. Hope you enjoy!!

Whizzer  _ says  _ that he brought brownies to Marvin’s classroom in order to “pin down a general consensus of baking preferences.” Marvin  _ knows  _ that Whizzer brought brownies to Marvin’s classroom in order to turn the students against their teacher.

“This is very unprofessional.” Marvin points out, nonetheless accepting the brownie offered to him by the scheming man.

“Can’t fault me for wanting to stay on-brand then.” Whizzer says, and Marvin tries to hide his smile by taking a big bite of the dessert.

It’s at that moment that Marvin and his students learn, independently yet simultaneously, that Whizzer Brown — though handsome, athletic, charming, etc. — is a  _ terrible  _ cook.

Five students ask to go to the nurse. Marvin is tempted to join them.

:: - ::

_“I_ _followed the recipe_.” Whizzer exclaims, loitering in Marvin’s classroom after the bell rings and the queasy students practically dart out of the room.

“Was the recipe made before  _ sugar  _ was invented?” Marvin demands, laughing a bit at Whizzer’s affronted look.

“You know, the easiest way to a man’s heart is his stomach,” Marvin continues, unable to help himself — this is the first time that he has something concrete to tease Whizzer about instead of the other way around, “No wonder you’re still single.”

Whizzer doesn’t play along, responding sharply, “I’m still single because monogamy is boring and domesticity is a cult of oppression.”

Marvin’s fun stops very suddenly.

“You don’t believe in relationships?” At Whizzer’s shake of the head, Marvin blinks, the words spilling out of him, “Maybe you just haven’t found the right guy yet.”

He meant it to sound flirty. Instead, it sounded condescending.

“You know,” Whizzer says, his tone light but cutting nonetheless, “Just because you only like things that are hundreds of years old doesn’t mean you have to act like an old, dusty bastard.”

“I like all kinds of new things.” Marvin says, indignant.

“Yeah, right.” Whizzer replies dismissively, rolling his eyes.

“I like modern sewer systems,” Marvin argues, relieved when Whizzer smiles out of surprise, “I like penicillin, I like electricity....”

Whizzer interrupts him, teasing, “More this decade, please.” 

“I like you.” It’s true and perhaps a bit obvious, but it takes both Marvin and Whizzer by surprise.

Whizzer looks at Marvin and Marvin looks at Whizzer. Whizzer’s gaze is startled, with a rim of curiosity around the irises. 

“Really?” He drawls out, silently asking for an elaboration.

But Marvin doesn’t want to elaborate.

“I think it’s pretty obvious,” He blusters, caught off script and off guard, “Of course we’re friends.”

It’s a simple word:  _ friends _ . It should not have shattered the moment between them as quickly and violently as it did.

The shutters fall over Whizzer’s expression, and his smile turns impersonal, cold.

“I thought you hated me.” He points out, “And now you like me? You need to get your story straight, Mr. Marvin.”

“I’m allowed to change my mind,” Marvin responds, “Jesus, you don’t have to be a dick.”

“Yeah,” Whizzer echoes, “You really don’t have to be.”

He leaves just as Marvin’s next class starts filing in, and Marvin watches him go, with the air of someone who has something to say but doesn’t know how to say it.

:: - ::

The next day, Marvin drags Whizzer into the Home-Ec room after school, brandishing a recipe and a plan.

“I go the recipe from Trina,” Marvin tells him, “I thought we could try making decent brownies this time.”

Whizzer shrugs, asking, “Is she a good cook?”

“Considering that I was with her for nine years and it certainly wasn’t for the sex,” Marvin points out, “I’d say so.”

Whizzer rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling, “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Now that’s the spirit,” Marvin says, throwing Whizzer a frilly apron as he ties his own on, “Sorta.”

:: - ::

It takes two hours, nine messy dishes, and two mental breakdowns, but eventually, Marvin and Whizzer proudly brandish a plate of disportionately cut, slightly crumbled,  _ delicious  _ brownies.

“You know,” Whizzer says as he and Marvin chink their brownies together like wine glasses in a toast, “For two bachelors, I’d say that this was actually impressive.”

They lean back against the counter, the plate of brownies placed between them. Though the circumstances could not be more different, the moment reminds Marvin of that night, outside the theater when he was so convinced that Whizzer was going to kiss him.

In hindsight, he’s glad that he didn’t. They’re two totally different people with two totally different perceptions of happiness.

To Whizzer, it’s meaningless sex and independence.

And Marvin...Marvin falls half in love with anyone who kisses him.

Yeah, it’s better this way. It’s better being friends. 

Not enemies. Not lovers. Just  _ friends _ .

Marvin looks over at Whizzer, an immature joke about edible brownies hanging on his lips, but then Whizzer’s hands are gripped at his collar, his tongue down his throat.

And the strong appeal of _ just friends _ drops dramatically.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a review?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another update so soon? I feel like I'm spoiling you, haha.

His hands tightly gripping the podium, Marvin trails off mid-lecture, his attention briefly subverted by the ticking clock for the umpteenth time. The students pause in their notes, eyes flickering across the room to meet one another for answers that no one has.

When the bell finally rings, Marvin sighs in relief, smiling tightly at the students that cast worried glances on their hurried way out of the room.

Charlotte appears only moments later, suspicion in her still vaguely flu-addled gaze as Marvin quickly ushers her inside and slams the door shut.

He’s already talking before the door even latches shut, “What I say here does not leave this room.”

“I’m doing fine, thanks for asking,” Charlotte gripes, “Been sick with the flu for a week but I’m excited for my first day back.”

“Charlotte, my soul is on the verge of  _ perishing _ ,” Marvin asserts dramatically, “While you are recovering, I am slowly sinking into an abyss of confusion and entanglement and despair!”

Charlotte gives him no pity, asking, “Has the vending machine in the teacher’s lounge stop working again?”

“ _ Charlotte _ ,” Marvin repeats, “This is serious.”

Charlotte’s critical gaze softens, “Okay, so what happened since I was gone?”

“You promise not to tell a single soul?” Marvin asks, hurriedly fluttering around the room to pull the blinds over the windows.

Charlotte’s expression grows worried as she quickly nods her head in agreement.

Marvin can’t bear to look at her, so he turns away, facing the shuttered blinds.

After a beat, Charlotte asks, “Marvin?”

When Marvin tells her, it’s in a low, soft whisper, more breath than speech.

When Charlotte repeats it, her incredulous, booming voice shakes the very foundation of this institution:

_ “You made out with Whizzer Brown?” _

:: - ::

Charlotte lifts her hand for a high-five, one that Marvin blatantly ignores and gives a searing glare instead.

“Could you repeat that, by the way?” Marvin says viciously, “I don’t think the people in  _ Amsterdam  _ heard you!”

“Tell me everything,” Charlotte demands, “Where, when, how, why — “

“In the nutrition lab, three days ago after school,” Marvin answers as stiffly and quickly as possible, “He just kissed me out of nowhere and it escalated quickly, and it happened because....” He’s at a loss, not quite sure how to answer that one.

“Okay, so you made out with him in the nutrition lab,” Charlotte repeats, trying to forward the conversation, “Which I promise not to tell Trina about because I think she might actually hang you on the flagpole by your ballsack — “

“Lovely imagery.” He mumbles under his breath.

“ — But I gotta know is this like a one-and-done sort of deal or am I going to have to protect my own lab from your gross sex sessions on school grounds…”

“Well, I would love to answer your poorly-framed questions,” Marvin says, “But unfortunately, I have no idea. Whizzer Brown has  _ ignored  _ me ever since it happened. He hasn’t stopped by my classroom a single time since and he’s even gotten Mendel to pass along information about the fundraiser so that he won’t have to see me.” Marvin sounds detached about it but the sorry fact shatters him as he says it. 

It’s stupid. He knows that he’s being stupid. 

And he wasn’t expecting any sort of  _ relationship  _ to come out of it, but he thought that at least the bastard would be able to make eye contact with him afterwards.

Charlotte claps Marvin on the back, a demonstration of solidarity.

They’re both quiet for a moment before Charlotte asks, “Was it good though?”

“It was fucking  _ fantastic _ .”

:: - ::

Each class, Marvin would see him approach before he can even make it to the door, the window in his classroom having a perfect view of the courtyard that Whizzer casually strolls through on the way to make a certain drama teacher’s life a living hell.

At best, the sight of him through the window would only warrant a tug of a frown, a quick eye roll of displeasure. 

Recently, however, Marvin can’t help but let his gaze linger on the man, following him until he falls out of sight.

It’s an annoyingly bad habit, and he’s trying to get himself to stop already before people start to talk.

The students have also started timing it like clockwork, using Marvin’s brief distraction period to check their phones or finish homework or continue to perform Satanic rituals (you know,  _ whatever  _ teenagers do nowadays).

Today isn’t any different. Marvin’s eyes follow Whizzer until he falls out of sight, students take this brief amount of free time to text or talk or hex…

But then, as Marvin would discover quite suddenly, today  _ is  _ different. Because Whizzer disappears from his line of sight and  _ doesn’t appear again. _

Marvin waits for that annoying little rap of knuckles at the door, keeps looking over his shoulder and expecting to see a big head of hair and a shit-eating grin.

But it never comes. Marvin’s class continues on uninterrupted.

It’s _ torture. _

:: - ::

Marvin finally corners him at a faculty meeting (which Marvin has always thought were a  _ complete  _ waste of time but very recently, he’s started to see the merit of them).

And he doesn’t mean to sound so bitter when he says, as the other teachers trickle out after the meeting, “Was I that bad of a kisser?”

Whizzer looks up from the floor that had been so interesting to him prior to this moment,  _ “What?” _

“Because you can’t fault me for that,” Marvin tells him, “I was in  _ shock _ , for fuck’s sake. You need to give a guy warning before you expect him to give peak performance.”

“Oh my god,“ Whizzer says, and he sounds horrified and exasperated but there’s a hint of a smile that he’s trying to bury deep, “We are not talking about this  _ here _ .” Because apparently he’s  _ Mr. Professional _ now.  _ Whatever. _

Whizzer pauses before adding a little quieter, with some reluctance, “But, it wasn’t  _ that _ . You weren’t bad or anything like that. Jesus, have some self-confidence.”

Whizzer tries to move past him but Marvin puts a hand on his chest, holding him in place, “So what was it then?”

Whizzer looks at Marvin, like his eyes are telling him something that his mouth is sworn to secrecy about. But Marvin doesn’t know what he’s trying to say, can’t read between the lines.

He can’t help it. He’s been a literalist his entire life. He’s always relied on stage directions to get him through.

“What?” Marvin demands again, and Whizzer’s expression grows dry.

“ _ Nothing _ . I had an itch,” He says stiffly, brushing Marvin’s hand aside and moving past him out of the room, “And I scratched it.”

Marvin feels the bluntness like a slap to the face, and by the time he musters up a hollow, “Glad I could help,” everyone has already gone.

:: - ::

“Whizzer Brown is an  _ asshole _ ,” Marvin declares at lunch, hacking at his baked potato and pretending that it’s Whizzer’s stupid head, “He’s a  _ poisonous bunch-backed toad _ ! A  _ poor, base, rascally, cheating lack-linen mate _ ! A  _ dried-neat’s tongue _ _ — _ “

Trina interrupts him, “I thought you guys were finally getting along.”

“I could never get along with that  _ imp  _ of a  _ ghoul  _ of a  _ hog  _ of a  _ man _ .” Marvin snaps, “He is the epitome of everything I despise. He is a  _ wretched  _ human being with absolutely no regard to others. He uses people and throws them away like  _ garbage _ , like  _ rotten milk. _ ”

For some reason, his reply warrants no response from Trina or Charlotte or  _ Mendel  _ (who has started to eat lunch with them, adding to Marvin’s already foul mood).

Mendel takes a restrained bite of his own baked potato, adding to break the tension, “Surprisingly edible.”

As everyone else continues in conversation, Marvin ignores all of them, continuing to slice up his potato with the viscosity of a man scorned.

:: - ::

Marvin goes home to an empty, small apartment on the rough side of a good neighborhood.

No one greets him as he stumbles through the door, kicking his shoes off and pressing his fingers to his temples after a particularly horrid drama practice. 

He treats this evening as any other — half-heartedly preparing a barely passable meal, eating it over the sink, and topping it off with a glass of brandy that goes down nicely like a punch to the gut.

He’s just started to wash up when his apartment door buzzes. Believing it must be some sort of mistake, Marvin takes his time going over to the buzzer, eventually pressing the button and asking, “Who is it?”

“It’s Whizzer. Can you let me up?” Marvin blinks but that’s the only hesitation he has before he buzzes Whizzer in and waits patiently at the door for the knock.

Whizzer lingers at the doorway when Marvin opens it, hands tucked his pocket and shoulder pressed against the doorframe. He looks simultaneously like he wishes he were anywhere but here and like he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

And Marvin just wants to know how he got his address.

“I kinda broke into the school’s office records,” Whizzer tells him sheepishly after Marvin asks, “By the way, your middle name is  _ Sherman _ ?”

“You broke into the office and read my private information so that you could find out where I lived and stop by at my doorstep?” Marvin clarifies, looking him up and down, “That’s so…”

Whizzer interrupts him, “Creepy, I know.”

Marvin shrugs, opening the door wider and stepping aside to give him some room to enter, “I was going to say romantic.”

Whizzer laughs and shakes his head, but he enters the apartment and pointedly closes the door behind him.

Marvin has a fleeting thought of offering him something to drink but Whizzer seems like he has something else in mind.

“I’m sorry,” Whizzer says, honest and blunt like always, “I was an ass.”

All Marvin can think to say is, “Oh,” because that’s what he can ever only think to say when Whizzer surprises him like this.

Whizzer sighs, running a hand through his hair. He takes a step closer to Marvin, and he looks surprised when Marvin doesn’t take a step back.

Whizzer looms over him, his hands slowly but surely finding their way to Marvin’s neck, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Marvin leans into him, his breath tickling Whizzer’s rapid pulse, “I won’t let you.”

And it escalates quickly from there - Whizzer’s hands in his hair, Marvin’s hands on his belt.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello. Bet you thought you'd seen the last of me.

Rehearsals had once been the highlight of Marvin’s day. 

They reminded him why he loved theater so much. Under the lights, on the stage, in front of the rows of empty seats, everyone was building upon something — whether it be lines or props or confidence. Marvin could watch as  _ something _ was made out of  _ nothing _ . Of course, Marvin can appreciate only watching a play that had been perfectly staged and performed but what he  _ really _ loved was seeing the production from start to finish. He loved the failures before the success — watching the production burn to the ground many times but students always picking something out of the wreckage to use next time.

He  _ loved _ the costume sewing, no matter how many pricks from the pins, and he  _ loved _ the stage-building, no matter how pitifully small the budget, and he  _ loved _ the line-learning, no matter how long it took for seventeen-year-olds to memorize a two line response. Rehearsal time used to be like a flash flood — quenching his thirst for just a moment before drying up and leaving him soaked and cold all too soon.

Today, however, he feels the hour trickle like an old faucet.

Marvin checks his watch for the fifth time, watching as the seconds hand  _ tick-tick-tick _ s to the trance-like rhythm of his own heartbeat. The students dutifully carry on their own responsibilities, glancing ever so often at their spaced out theater director and sharing looks amongst themselves.

Finally, after hearing Mr. Jacobi mess up his cue  _ again _ , Marvin speaks, the whole auditorium falling silent, “Let’s give it a rest for today.”

His students act like Marvin had just been devoured in front of them.

“What do you mean, Sir?” The tragically casted Ophelia asks as Marvin shuffles papers into his briefcase.

Marvin blinks, surprised by the question, “It means you all are dismissed. Rehearsal is over.”

The theater kids don’t move a muscle, which is honestly quite impressive for the usually hyper brats.

“We still have thirteen minutes.” Someone from the crowd pipes up.

Marvin stares at them. They all stare back.

“Then,” Marvin says slowly, confused by their behavior, “I guess we’re ending early.”

A collective gasp shatters the auditorium. 

“We  _ never _ end early.” A senior exclaims.

Marvin sighs, “Well, you all can continue practicing for,” He checks his watch, “Twelve and a half minutes but I am going to pick up my son.” 

The students, only semi-reassured that this isn’t some sort of test, slowly start to gather their things, looking over their shoulders as if waiting for Marvin to say something.

But Marvin is already out the door, walking toward the baseball field.

:: - ::

From the bleachers, Marvin watches the field, even though Jason has more or less stayed in the dug-out for the remaining ten minutes of practice. Marvin would be offended by this fact if he didn’t personally know that Jason was, to put it delicately, fucking  _ horrendous _ at the sport. However, Whizzer does yell tips and observances at the rookies, gesturing to the varsity players and telling them what to emulate and what not to. Marvin sits with his head perched on his hand, staring at Whizzer’s hands as they run through his hair with reckless, absent abandon.

When practice is over, Marvin goes straight to his son, who seems surprised to see him there. Usually, while the other kids would leave after practice, Jason would have to slink back to the auditorium, where practice would almost always been running over time.

“Dad,” Jason acknowledges, which he very rarely does on school grounds (or in life, in general, to be quite honest), “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Marvin assures, trying to look as casual as he can in a full suit in ninety-degree weather, “I just dismissed rehearsals early.”

Jason looks just as surprised at that as his students, “Why?”

“I wanted to see,” Marvin falters a little, noticing Whizzer Brown walking toward them, “Uh,  _ you,  _ of course. I wanted to see you.”

Jason narrows his eyes at him, pointing out bluntly, “That’s weird.”

Marvin pretends to be offended, responding indignantly, “It’s called  _ love _ , Jason.” 

“Hey, Jason.” Whizzer claps him on the back, which Jason reacts to by looking jarred but pleased. Whizzer then looks to Marvin, and if he’s surprised to see him, he doesn’t show it.

“Hello, Mr. Marvin.” The greeting is neutral, betraying no regard for the man either way.

Marvin bobs his head in acknowledgement, “Brown.”

The moment is charged between them, the memory of last night still fresh and kinetic in their minds.

As always, Jason just sees fault in Marvin, asking lowly, “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Marvin affirms, looking to his son, “I’m just — tired, is all.”

“Tired?” Whizzer latches onto that lie like a piranha, “What else did you do today except grade papers and yell at teenagers?”

Marvin counters with a strained smile, “A small man can be just as exhausted as a great man.”

“Is that just a pretentious quote,” Whizzer asks, eyes scanning him before continuing, “Or are we finally acknowledging your pitiful height?”

Jason suddenly pipes up, looking ashamed that he even knows the trivia, “It’s a quote by Arthur Miller from  _ Death of a Salesman. _ ”

“He was married to Marilyn Monroe.” Marvin says, though he doesn’t know why he’s bragging on behalf of a dead man.

Whizzer is unimpressed, “So was Joe DiMaggio.”

Marvin looks over to Jason, who looks bored at the conversation, and tells him, “We should get going. Your mom is waiting for you back at the house.”

Jason has already taken his headphones out from his backpack, popping them in and nodding as he says a quick goodbye to Whizzer and starts walking away. Marvin hesitates falling into step with his kid and they both watch him walk a respectable distance away before he talks.

“I gotta drop him off at Trina’s,” Marvin reiterates, wanting to ask but not wanting the implications of asking, “I’ll probably be home around five.”

“Okay.”

Marvin waits for a reaction that doesn’t come. Whizzer stands perfectly casual, tucking his thumbs into his empty belt loops (because _ of course _ he doesn’t wear a belt. Belts are for professionals). Marvin chides himself for being that forward (though he really wasn’t that forward at all) and turns to walk away.

“You said five, right?” Whizzer says, and when Marvin looks back at him, he’s smiling.

Marvin doesn’t dignify him with a response, walking to catch up with his son and ignoring the pair of eyes on him.

When five o’clock rolls around, Marvin is freshly showered and dressed (in his casual wear, he should add, which consists of a plain button-up shirt and his weekend khakis). He opens to door to let Whizzer up, vainly considering to open a bottle of wine at the last minute before deciding against it. A million thoughts race through his mind — are they going to talk? Does Marvin want them to talk? Oh God, he hasn’t prepared for talking.  _ What the fuck is he going to say? _ _ — _ but all of them fade as soon as he sees Whizzer standing in the doorway.

And Whizzer, being the romantic that Marvin always knew he’d fall for, just closes the door behind him and says, “Take your pants off.”

:: - ::

When Whizzer visits his classroom the next day, Marvin is already crossing the room toward him with a book in his hand.

“Miller’s  _ Death of a Salesman. _ ” Marvin says with the outstretched book.

“Are you assigning me homework, Mr. Marvin?” Whizzer demands, looking comically bereft for the delight of the students. He takes the book anyway, letting their hands brush and fingertips linger.

“This week’s project is breaking into groups of three and making a quiz for Mr. Brown,” Marvin says to his class, maintaining eye contact with Whizzer, “Hardest version gets exempt from costume sewing rotation for a month.” The kids laugh but, upon realizing Marvin’s serious expression, quietly break off into groups.

“I have bettered my cooking skills.” Whizzer brags, ignoring Marvin’s look of disbelief.

“Have you finally learned to follow the instructions on the box?” He asks, to which Whizzer responds by waving the book around.

“Don’t piss off the guy who has the power and opportunity to dogear these pristine pages.” 

Marvin understandably backs off, changing the subject, “We should host some class meetings. Get the word out so we’ll have plenty donations by the time the day of the sale comes.”

“It’s evilly genius, in a way,” Whizzer says, “We encourage the parents to make goods with their own resources and then exchange those goods between amongst themselves, but then  _ we _ get to keep the money.”

“This is about us saving the school from foreclosure,” Marvin reminds him sternly, “Please don’t try to reframe the narrative. You’re not the history teacher.”

And this rapport is nice; he loves  _ this _ rapport.

But right now Whizzer is looking at him like he did last night and the night before that, and Marvin feels himself flushing, and he decides that this new, ah…. _ development _ isn’t half-bad either.

:: - ::

At lunch, Marvin is mid-argument with Mendel when Whizzer joins the table. A comical hush falls over the table but every glance over at Marvin’s smiling expression only leads to confusion.

“ _ Death of a Salesman _ isn’t even a book,” Whizzer complains, “It’s  _ worse _ . It’s written like a fucking play.”

“Did you expect anything else from me?” Marvin asks, to which Whizzer has to begrudgingly concede.

“Hey, Whizzer.” Charlotte says, trying to hide how the gears are turning rapidly in her head.

Whizzer smiles and echoes the greeting, appearing normal as he chows down on Cordelia’s questionable tacos.

Marvin continues his debate with Mendel (which he wins, by the way, but he supposes that isn’t important), with Whizzer and Charlotte and Trina having their own conversation and needling in when Marvin or Mendel say something deemed “moronic.” 

By the end of the period, Trina feels comfortable enough to point out to Marvin and Whizzer, “I’m sorry, but didn’t you hate each other just earlier this week?”

Marvin and Whizzer just shrug.

“I guess we just found mutual interests.” Whizzer says, neutral and sincere, and god, he should have won a Tony for that performance,  _ God Bless. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that last line for inspired by the Tony Awards last night.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoy this, please take the time to give this story a review! It really helps support this story and encourage me as a writer.


End file.
